


London Beckoned For Songs About Money Written By Machines

by rocketray



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketray/pseuds/rocketray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before it started… Basement shows, rehearsing at Spencer’s grandmother’s house… We did whatever we wanted. Made out backstage, crashed in whatever motel room we could afford to pay for or public bathroom we could afford the stares from.<br/>But... now.<br/>Now, it’s different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Beckoned For Songs About Money Written By Machines

You always encouraged me to question everything.

The grime of society, the treatment from the press.

Interviewer being rude? Push right back.

After all, they eat it up.

So I’ll sit next to you, feeding this smiling lady with her gleaming smile and perfect, straight hair lies about us being friends to dispell the rumours. Just like Spencer reminded me before we went on stage, and Pete before.

The lies are my little rebellion.

Letting myself be moulded to what everyone and anyone else wants to see in the public eye; these lies are my revenge. Being exactly what everyone wants is how I show off the way I have _everything_ I’ll never really have.

They’re all lies, all for you.

So I ask myself in every dressing room mirror, why don’t I just kiss you on camera one of these days?

Because some day, I will.

As soon as I’m ready to lose it all.

 

_Panic!, meet the press…_

Before it started… Basement shows, rehearsing at Spencer’s grandmother’s house… We did whatever we wanted. Made out backstage, crashed in whatever motel room when could afford to pay for one or public bathroom we could afford the stares from.

But... now.

Now, it’s different.

We have to be safely in the hotel room with the door locked and in bed and under the facade of just getting undressed and ready to sleep before you get desperate (and you always do) and try to keep at it until I make a move (well, someone has to).

I always make the move.

You’re a tease, you know that? You always have the full intention of… But you never…

They call me charming.

I am Brendon Urie, charming and hyper and whatever they want me to be.

Whatever you want me to be.

_Panic!, meet the press…_

I don’t care anymore.

I kissed you on stage today, Ryan.

You were mad, I didn’t care.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Me, me.

Not Brendon Urie of Panic! at the Disco.

Brendon. Of the Las Vegas Mormons with whom he never felt like a part of because he _wasn’t_.

Me, the smoking, (sometimes, Pete helps me out) drinking, fucking Brendon.

The Real Brendon. Not some magazine reader’s perception.

I even feel more real now. I feel alive, colorful, almost as golden as they describe me.

I kiss you more when we’re at the hotel, safe, the way you like it.

And you apologize.

And I say it’s okay, because what good’s fighting when we both know the real us?


End file.
